Of Devil Men and Crystal Ladies
by Shambhalasoulful
Summary: A girl and a boy, a man and a woman, a yōkai and an onmyōji , and their adventures in an infinitely gray world. A series of unrelated one-shots and drabbles.
1. Devil in the Wall

**A/N**: I know, this isn't the second chapter, but it is something that hit me in the head one night on a whim, so yeah. Here it is! This might end up a series of unrelated one-shots and drabbles that come to me randomly, so be on the lookout for more. As always, a huge thanks to all who have read and/reviewed my stories; your support is invaluable. Feedback always welcome!

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Nurarihyon no Mago or its characters. However, I do own little Arata, so no stealing my mini onmyoji!

**Summary**: A glimpse into the affairs of the Keikain estate and the infamous apparition that haunts its halls. Told from the perspective of its newest and youngest member.

* * *

_**Devil in the Wall**_

Since leaving his family's home to take his place in their extended lineage, Arata has quickly become accustomed to the goings-on of the Keikain Main House. He knows the faces, if not the names, of all the major players, and with careful consideration and the fortunate narrow escape, he has learned to skillfully avoid those same threatening faces.

Ryuuji-sama is a trickster. Every word that forms on his tongue is to be coated in salt and thrown over the shoulder, and Arata has a number of first-hand accounts to the wicked machinations the older man whispers into the ears of his young subordinates. Even now, he can see the underlings of Ryuuji-sama practicing their jutsu, their eyes crossed and their legs bent like crickets, because their diligent leader convinced them that the position would heighten their awareness and multiply their natural talents twenty-fold.

Arata takes an hour each day out of his schedule to thank the gods for gifting him a wisdom beyond his years.

Mamiru-sama (Ryuuji-sama's right hand, Arata has heard some call him) is an enigma. His bright hair and glowing yellow eyes remind him of yokai, yet the inhabitants of the main house treat him as their own, so he prudently steers his opinions inward. The slender man is almost always wandering the grounds with single-minded determination, like a wolf protecting his pack, waiting for the moment an enemy appears to challenge them. Arata finds his devotion admirable, and once, he followed the lightening onmyoji as he made his rounds, keeping close to the manicured bushes for fear of being seen. He didn't know what he could hope to witness, but he was dumb-founded to see the tall man seat himself down at the edge of the compound, long legs crossed in the position of lotus, arms limp by his knees. For an indeterminate amount of time, Mamiru-sama stayed thus, completely and utterly still, glowing eyes closed and form relaxed. Before he was aware, Arata was jerking awake to the chirps of cicadas, his back stiff and his short limbs unresponsive. Mamiru-sama stood over him, expressionless eyes trained on him, before he bent and held out his gloved hand, offering assistance.

"You should watch where you choose to rest," he murmured, voice a soft monotone as he pulled the child to his feet. "If there were an attack, you would be left vulnerable." Then he left.

Arata never did find out what the man was doing that day, but he figures it to be for the best.

Wise Akifusa-sama is no better understood than Mamiru-sama, but at least he offers a smile and kind word when addressed. Truth be told, Arata has only seen the First Seal's guardian a handful of times since his arrival six months prior, and he is told that the man spends most of his time divided between his study and his duties. The more seasoned members speak of a secret lab deep in the confines of the grounds, where Akifusa-sama retires to work on various experiments. The rumors remind him of the gossip at home, his mother's mentions of the onmyoji's dabble in the forbidden arts and its terrible consequences years ago, but here and now, the man seems revered, even if he is the subject of numerous late-night ghost stories. He often provides his wisdom for those young and courageous enough to request it, and Arata cannot help but wonder what life secrets Akifusa-sama tells them, wine-red eyes gleaming with intelligence and the smallest hint of humor, as if he knows the tales told in his wake.

Since coming here, young Arata has heard a myriad of rumors, each more outrageous than its predecessors, and the majority of those tales somehow involve at least one of those three men.

But even those stories fail to match the magnitude of the rumor surrounding the beautiful Lady Keikain.

Yura-sama is a prism, capable of anything and everything, and Arata would be lying if he denied the reddening of his cheeks and the stuttering of his breath whenever he came into her vicinity. Her dark eyes are always sharp, always seem to be looking for a way to better the clan, its individuals, and herself.

In his entire eight years, Arata has yet to meet anyone so dedicated to her work, so faithful to those under her charge.

Which begs the question: why would someone as dedicated, as faithful, as _indomitable_ as Yura-sama, ever fall victim to a mere _yokai's_ whims?

* * *

The gossip is interchangeable, of course. One source says that Yura-sama met a yokai long ago in her youth, one that possessed her mind and forced her to do its bidding. Even now, the demon appears to remind her of their contract, should she ever stray.

It's the most ridiculous tale to swallow, as it is known region-wide that Lady Keikain answers to no one, let alone some lowly demon.

From there, the rumors morph into more believable renditions, though the beginning always remains the same. There remains a yokai from the Lady's past, and somehow, he has the power stealthily evade any security, any defense, like an eel slides its lithe body through a hunter's net.

It is absurd, but it is also the only part of the story that continues to be labeled truth.

After overhearing the rumors told by the older onmyoji for the last time, Arata gathers the bravery to approach Akifusa-sama about the infamy of this ayakashi; he is flabbergasted to find the same look of humored thoughtfulness develop the man's face before he tells the boy to seek his answers elsewhere. He sends him off with a secretive smile.

When he approaches Mamiru-sama about the same issue, the silent man's fingertips crackle with yellow lightening before Arata describes the yokai's rumored characteristics, garnet eyes and a long mane of dual-toned hair. Immediately, the onmyoji's threat simmers, and he blankly eyes the youngster before calmly shaking his head.

"Not a threat," he murmurs, and he sends the child to his next lesson none the wiser.

Later in the week, while the other trainees pretend to devour the text laid out before them, Arata discreetly makes his way to the front of the hall, his socks sliding on the gleaming wood floor. He stops in front of Ryuuji-sama, who arches an eyebrow when the boy remains silent, wringing his hands into his hakama. "Well," he demands, "what do you want?"

And with a deep breath, Arata releases his frustrations. "There's an ayakashi stalking Keikain-sama!"

The other students drop their scrolls in surprise, and each leans forward on his or her cushion to better hear their teacher's response. They've all heard the rumors; finally attaining answers would be the ultimate treat.

For a moment, Ryuuji-sama only stares, his thick eyebrow arched. But slowly, his features morph into a scowl, and he slams his gauntleted hands against the floor and abruptly stands. Arata jumps, heart in his throat, and shuts his eyes to receive the punishment for his audacity. Instead, the older man storms away, his voice echoing off the far walls.

"That ass is here _again_?!" And Arata watches, stunned, as Ryuuji-sama charges away, leaving his students to carefully memorize the curses falling from his lips like water.

Eventually, another elder enters the hall and instructs them to return to their rooms for independent study. As they move single-file to what the students call "The Barracks," Arata spots his instructor in heated debate with none other than Yura-sama, their faces inches apart.

Even with her features twisted in irritation, the Lady is beautiful. Her ink-black hair tumbles down her back in shiny strands that distinguish her pale skin and vibrant white haori. Her frustration has her slender, calloused hands planted on her hips, her legs widened to accommodate her balance as she leans further into her brother's space, voice rising in tandem with his, cheeks blooming an angry red.

Arata's face enflames with the sight, and he ducks his head before his friends take notice and tease him for his well-known crush. But as the children round the corner, he can't resist one last look over his shoulder, his steps slowing as he notices another figure grouped together with his superiors.

A man stands right behind Yura-sama, several inches taller and wiry in figure. His clothes are from the outside, a simple shirt and pants, and a pair of round glasses roost on his nose. His lightly tanned skin is framed by brown shocks of hair, two tones from his crown to his nape. Arata does not recognize this stranger, and he slows his march to observe more.

Where does this man come from? Why is he here? And why does he stand so intimately close to Lady Keikain, completely relaxed in their close proximity?

Arata's thoughts buzz over the possibilities, some of which send jealousy spiking through his gut, when the stranger suddenly locks eyes with him, his round spectacles catching the light in a bright flash. The boy is surprised to see such a kind face, and he blinks when the man lifts his hand in a friendly wave, mouth smiling.

He can only stare in return before cautiously lifting his arm to return the gesture, at a loss for what else to do. The stranger's smile brightens before he breaks eye contact and returns to the scene at hand; his expression is amused as he watches the squabbling siblings, and Arata sees another grin form as the voices once again rise in pitch. The man lifts a hand to lay it gently against Yura-sama's shoulder, whether to get her attention or offer support, Arata is unsure. But the gesture seems to work somewhat; Yura-sama's shoulders gradually unwind from their tense positions, though she shows no other outward change as she continues shouting in her brother's face.

Arata finally rounds the corner and jogs to catch up to his peers. But even as he falls in step with them, his thoughts continue to wander in the direction of the adult trio poised outside in the sunshine.

Who is that man, he wonders. And what connection does he have to the great Lady Yura?

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Arata vows to find out.

* * *

His chance appears in the wee hours of a Friday night, as he listens to the toss and turn of his roommates. In the distance, a wolf howls and a koi fish splashes in its pond, and Arata takes their nighttime noises as a sign to proceed through his plan. Quietly, he tosses the sheets aside, rises from his futon, and carefully tiptoes his way around small bodies to the shoji doors. He breathes a sigh of relief as he stands in the hallway and sees the coast clear. With a courage-giving nod to himself, he navigates his way across the Keikain grounds, small feet leading him to the Main House's bedchambers, where his target haunts. He avoids the sentries dotting the walkways, their paces slow and cumbersome enough in the summer heat to allow his slight frame to bypass them with minimal trouble.

He arrives at his destination. He wipes the sweat from his brow and pushes his wet bangs from his forehead; his young face is determined. He will be the one to catch this demon of the night and keep his precious Lady from being harmed. He swears it to the winking stars and the half-moon visible through the wispy clouds.

Just as he climbs onto the veranda, he sees a sneak of movement in his periphery. He whips his head to the right, where the hall leads into the darkness of the inner chambers, and catches the glimmer of _something_ as it bleeds into the black.

Ah, there is the culprit!

Steeling his gut, Arata takes off in the direction of the ghost, his nerves thrumming with the thrill of the hunt, and he pursues the creature unwaveringly as it leads him down a multitude of twists and turns. His honed senses allow him to navigate with surprising success, but as the minutes pass and the trail grows cold, Arata slowly loses his confidence. He begins to wonder if the chase will ever end, as his legs begin to cramp and his heart thumps with exertion. Just as he considers taking a rest, he reaches the point of no return.

The head chambers.

Here, the trail stops, and Arata's heart flutters in his chest as he thinks of the danger that could be lurking the corners of that room, waiting to devour his precious leader. With renewed energy, the boy prepares to charge the room's interior, heedless of the consequences, when he abruptly pauses.

There are voices within those walls. Two, if he hears them correctly.

Confused, Arata slinks closer to the ornate doors, ear cocked to the goings-on inside.

One voice definitely belongs to his Yura-sama, as it rings with a power that is both deadly and loving. The other voice…

Whose is it? It is not one he recognizes, no matter how many times he shuffles through his memories. But he is startled to find it deep and masculine; a man's voice, calm and self-assured, with a hint of devil's seduction.

There is no doubt; this is the yokai haunting the Lady. But why is she so unaffected by his presence? Why does she sound so relaxed, not at all angry or fearful of the creature invading her space?

Could that outrageous rumor be true? Is she possessed?

Arata immediately shakes his head, hair whipping his face. No, that _can't_ be it. She is merely biding her time, luring the ayakashi into a false sense of control, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

Yes, that must be it. But the urge to protect still envelops Arata's heart. He will assist the Lady in this endeavor, protect her if need be.

Resolute in his plan, Arata prepares himself to barge into the danger zone, his breath rapid and body shaking with adrenaline.

Before he can take even the first step, _it_ appears in front of him.

The darkness hides the majority of its form, but Arata briefly makes out the blood red of its glowing irises, the white shock of hair billowing behind its tall, lean figure like a flag, the deep indigo of its haori as it lies across its broad shoulders.

That is all Arata can see before the creature literally _dissolves_ into the darkness, the air barely stirring with its departure.

The next moment, he's off his feet. The hallway blurs and disappears from his sight, his heart stops, and an instant after he opens his mouth to scream, the world returns in a blur of color and he hits the floor with a light _thump_.

For a time, he keeps his eyes closed, too afraid and ashamed to face the demon that has him in its clutches. The sting of tears presses against his eyelids as he thinks of his Lady and his failure…

"Arata-kun?!"

…He blinks. Was that his Lady? Slowly, Arata opens his eyes completely and surveys his surroundings. The room is large and spacious; pushed against its walls are bureaus and dressers, floor-length shelves overflowing with scrolls and tomes. In one corner, piles of colorful blankets cover a plush futon, and a small low-legged table in the center of the room provides a solid surface for the kettle and two teacups that sit atop it.

And sitting on one side of that table is Yura-sama, safe and whole and unharmed.

"…_Keikain-sama_!"

Arata launches himself at her, small arms wrapping around her middle in a complete disregard for the rules taught to him. In heart throbbing relief, he presses his face into her bosom, fingers digging into the soft, thin material of her yukata.

"I'm _so_ glad you're okay!" His voice shakes like a feather in the wind. Not the mark of a hero, but in his joy, he can't care less.

"Arata-kun?" Yura-sama's tone reveals her utter confusion, but she wraps her wiry arms around his back, securing him to her person; Arata burrows even closer, blissful. "Why wouldn't I be okay? And what are you doing hereand out of bed?"

"I never took you for the mothering type, Yura."

At the sound of that voice, Arata's rapture breaks, and his head whips around to glare miniature daggers at the intruder. The same dark specter from the hallway lounges nearby, crimson eyes narrowed in amusement and pale lips quirked in a smirk. "Ayakashi," the boy snarls, face scrunched in anger, and the yokai's smirk widens. Looking back to his Lady, he finds her face morphed in a light scowl, annoyance sparking her dark brown eyes.

The decision is made. Now that his Lady is safe, he can return to his previous plan and exorcise this demon before he causes trouble.

In haste, Arata breaks his hold on Yura-sama's waist and pounces. Remembering his training, he reaches into the large sleeve of his yukata and removes two ofuda, clutching them between his fingers as he calls on his enchantment.

"Yokai! Be go-!" Mid-incantation, Arata is again hoisted into the air, this time by his leg. As he yells out and tries to get free, the yokai's face appears before him, smirk still on his lips and an eyebrow raised.

"Oh? You plan to destroy me, huh?"

"Anything to protect my Lady, you _bastard_!" With quick movements, Arata swings his body, pulls back his arm, and sends it careening for the man's forehead. With a resounding _smack_, the ofuda clings to his white hairline, and the boy huffs in triumph for his success in the exorcism and mentally pats his back for also remembering one of Ryuuji-sama's profanities.

Admittedly surprised, the ayakashi regards him silently before releasing a loud chuckle and swinging him in Yura-sama's direction. "Kid's got spunk, I'll give him that. And his loyalty to you is ridiculous."

Arata is flabbergasted. How did his enchantment not work? Why is the intruder not reduced to a pile of sooty ash? He stares at the ayakashi from his upside-down position, mouth agape, and then shifts his observation to Yura-sama, who looks crossed between humor, frustration, and concern.

The boy pouts, feeling defeated. "I'm sorry, Keikain-sama. I couldn't protect you."

With a noise between a heavy sigh and a chuckle, Yura-sama reaches for him, and the yokai fairly dumps him in her arms, where he reorients himself. He clutches at her robe and rests his head against her shoulder, a good vantage to continue glaring as she rubs her hand along his back.

"Arata-kun?" His attention immediately shifts to his Lady, and her expression is curious. "Where did you get the idea that I was in danger?"

"From the rumors the older members talked about. They said there was a ghost that kept trying to hurt you." At the word 'ghost', he shifts his gaze to the intruder, who smirks back.

"A ghost, huh? Seems the onmyoji are having fun with their interpretations of my visits."

"Maybe if you actually scheduled your trips here like a proper visitor, people wouldn't think you were so shifty."

He shrugs. "Not my style. You know that."

Arata cuts in. "You're gonna destroy him, right, Keikain-sama?"

"Sometimes I think I should," he hears her mutter, and the yokai chuckles. "But no." She smiles at Arata's shocked gaze. "This yokai isn't a bad one, Arata-kun. He's just a nuisance."

Arata looks up at his Lady, her gaze confident and sure, and then at the ayakashi watching them from the other side of the table. He doesn't understand her logic, as all of his sources have told him of yokai and their evil natures. How can one of them be 'good'?

…But Yura-sama seems sure in her statement, and this stranger doesn't seem like such a threat to her. Why would she allow him so close to her if she thought he were less than trustworthy.

Going through the deductions, Arata finally nods. "Okay, Keikain-sama."

His former opponent snickers. "That was easy."

Ignoring her companion, his Lady's face brightens at his reply, her pink lips curling with fondness, and he beams back, happy to have made her smile. "Good. Now," and her voice regains its firmness, "you need to return to bed. I still don't know how you made it all the way here, but no one your age needs to be out this late." With that, she places him back on his feet and straightens his yukata and hair before grabbing his hand. She turns to the ayakashi.

"Rikuo, I'll be back. _Don't_ smoke in here."

The man rises to his feet, arranging his clothing into a more secure hold. "I'll join you. A woman and child should not be left to roam the darkness alone."

She snorts. "How noble of you."

"As if you expect anything else?" He steps toward them, hand lifting to flick her forehead, when Arata uses his free arm to push at the man's hakama-clad leg. When they make eye contact, the boy scowls.

The yokai lifts an eyebrow before smirking. "Possessive little thing." He winks roguishly. "She was mine first, you know."

"No, I wasn't. And I'm not now." Yura-sama's dry tone kills any chance for retort, and Arata levels a smug look at the ayakashi and squeezes her fingers as they set out into the darkness.

As if some yokai could ever claim to possess_ his_ Lady.


	2. China Girl

**A/N**: Story number 2! Because what one-shot collection is complete without a dance fic? Enjoy, everyone!

**Disclaimer**: Don't own, only borrow for my sadistic purposes.

**Summary**: A dance, a lesson, a teacher, a tease, and an oriental dress. Yura's first time being a real teenager.

* * *

_China Girl_

* * *

She did _not_ want to be here.

With a small shift of her legs, Yura blew a stray strand of hair from her forehead, eyeing the churning masses of her classmates as they gyrated to a tune she had never heard.

Frankly, the girl failed to understand how her friends could be comfortable in such confining spaces. The rented hall was packed with the likes of which she had never witnessed anywhere but on television programs. Buffet tables riddled with food and drink, streamers of every color trailing from the high ceiling, confetti and glitter cluttering the floor like colonies of neon ants.

Kiyotsugu knew how to waste his money. Of that, Yura was positive.

But the young man had insisted. As class president of their class, he had come forth with the idea to host a party for the 2nd years, a true get-together without the "stifling presence of faculty authority," as he had so eloquently stated. And with his wealth and connections, he had made it happen. While there were still chaperones to monitor their behavior, they were few and far between, allowing the students to bask in the glory of independence…or the illusion of it, at least.

As he had listed the official sponsor of the shindig as the Kiyojuji Paranormal Investigation Squad, he, of course, had insisted the club's members attend.

As if the self-proclaimed youkai expert could have stopped her from boarding the next train to Kyoto, just to avoid the event.

The goodness in her heart was the only thing that kept her from doing so. And it was that same slowly dwindling humanitarianism that kept her here, seated on a plastic chair in an attempt to blend into the scenery.

Maki, Torii, and Kana had succeeded in hauling her to the nearest clothing store, where they mercilessly stripped her bare and sent her into a changing room with bands of colorful cloth she doubted were actual clothes. Luckily, the dance still issued a dress code, so any hopes her peers had nurtured for dressing 'provocatively' had been squashed, leaving many at a loss for wardrobe.

She exited the area with her uniform back in place, and the girls gawked as she silently dumped the clothes back into their arms and disappeared into the dress section. She returned seconds later with her choice, elegant in design and Chinese in origin, a _cheongsam_, if she remembered correctly. She admired the outfit's subtle flair, its white silk tint enhanced with golden-threaded depictions of animals that fondly reminded her of her shikigami. It was form fitting, slit to the lower thigh, and obviously more seductive than anything she had ever worn, but it was beautiful, and she wanted it.

If she was going to do this, it was going to be by _her_ rules.

The girls applauded her taste and assisted in finding the accessories that would complete the look of a traditional Chinese socialite. Decorative pins for her short, spiky hair, gold-tipped flats for her feet, and a stick of gloss for her lips.

The gloss they snuck in at the checkout line. While they tittered over their dresses, she snuck it back to its original location.

The night of the dance, they gathered in her apartment and dressed together, and Yura was forced into her desk chair as Torii-san took a brush to her hair and Kana-san produced a tube of rose-tinted gloss from her make-up bag. Yura gaped at the smug look in the girl's eyes as she dabbed the stuff on her lips, just enough to create a healthy shine.

From her bed, Tsurara giggled at her scandalized expression, and she weakly glared back. Deceitful youkai or no, she blamed the Yuki-Onna for her absence that day at the mall, making the onmyouji the only target for their friends' makeover scheme.

The girl insisted she had been helping her Rikuo-sama with his outfit, which was entirely believable, but Yura stood firm in her resolution to angrily eye the young woman for the rest of the evening.

And she continued to stand firm in that resolve as she glowered at the snow woman on the hardwood floor as she danced happily with her commander.

Yura sighed as she ran a hand over her smoothed hair, unused to her bangs being absent from her forehead. But even she had to admit that the girls had done good work, despite her uncaring disposition and desire to find her well-loved haori.

"You look nice tonight."

Yura looked up at the familiar voice to see Rikuo take a seat next to her, his hands folded in his lap and his ever-present smile curving his lips.

She humored him. "You think?"

"One of the prettiest girls here, I'd say," he confirmed, and she nodded once in gratitude for the heartfelt compliment.

"Were you forced to get dressed up, too?" She regarded his attire with envy, and he chuckled at her visage as he plucked at the simple white dress shirt and black slacks.

"I guess so, but I doubt my experience is anything compared to what women usually go through." He admired her dress. "But then, I also don't think the result is nearly as nice."

"Jii-chan teach you to say that?" Her glossed lips curled.

He laughed. "No, but it sounds frighteningly close to something he'd say. Guess I should be careful."

Their banter dissolved into a companionable silence as they observed the party from the sidelines. They laughed as Shiga roamed from girl to girl asking for a dance, before he was finally accepted by Tsurara, who made sure to keep a number of inches between them. Yura lifted an eyebrow when she thought she spotted the giant Aotabo near the buffet table, speaking to a scarf-wearing blond man with sunglasses and a handsome suit-wearing man with long black hair. When she turned to Rikuo, he shrugged helplessly.

"They insisted," was all he had to say, and she nodded in empathy. She understood all too well the small displeasures that coalesced in their roles as heirs. She herself had to convince Hidemoto to remain within Hagun for the night, and she remembered well the dejected look that enveloped his features as he faded into the stores of her power.

"He made me promise to bring him back something for his trouble."

"Funny. Grandpa made me swear the same thing."

They regarded one another, faces blank, before simultaneously slumping in resignation.

"No wonder they get along so well," Yura muttered, and Rikuo agreed with a sage nod and a chuckle.

"But," he began, straightening in his chair, "the night doesn't have to be a complete bust." With sureness in his movements, he rose from his seat and stepped in front of Yura, hand extended. "Want to dance?"

Surprised, Yura eyed the invitation and the dance floor with slight wariness. "I don't really know how to dance," she answered, shrugging. "Sorry."

"My mom taught me the basics," he insisted, extending his hand further, "I'll teach you."

Yura sighed. The boy _had_ kept her company for a solid amount of time. She figured she could at least thank him by accepting his request.

Wordlessly, she lifted her hand, placed it in his, and rose from her seat, smiling at his answering grin.

As she followed him into the crowd of moving bodies, she felt herself swallow in apprehension and wish for the safe solidity of her chair.

Demons she could handle. Dancing in the darkness, smashed against sweating bodies, blinded by neon lights as they passed overhead?

Not so much her forte.

Rikuo gently pulled her in the direction of a less populated section of the floor and turned to face her, smile sympathetic as he caught her apprehension. "It's okay," he assured her over the booming music. "Just follow my steps."

Apprehensive, she nodded and allowed him to take her hand and place it on his shoulder, wrap his arm around her waist and clasp her remaining hand in his own. She smirked as his glasses reflected the neon lights.

"Okay, can you hear the rhythm of the song?" He cocked his head to listen, and nodded in time with the fast beat as it became clear. Yura did the same, and bobbing her head in affirmation, she held still as Rikuo held her more firmly and indicated their feet. "Now just move your feet to that same rhythm." In demonstration, he moved one foot inward and back out before doing the same to the other, increasing the time of his steps until they matched the quick tempo. Watching their shoes, Yura slowly copied his movements until they were identical. When she looked back up, he beamed. "You're doing great!" And she couldn't help smiling at his enthusiasm.

They matched steps for a short time as Yura became accustomed, then listened intently as he continued their lesson. "Now, with your feet still moving, add the rest of your body." He sent their clasped hands swinging to the same rhythm, effectively adding momentum until their bodies swayed in tandem. Stiff and unsure, Yura merely followed Rikuo's example before he shook his head and stopped them.

"You have to relax," he said, chuckling. "Let yourself move naturally, and everything else will follow."

She nodded, determined. "Right."

With an encouraging smile, Rikuo set them moving again, and Yura allowed herself to sense the rhythm and follow its pattern. Before long, she was smiling victoriously as they danced, proud of her success.

"I'd say you're a natural," Rikuo laughed as she began leading him step for step. "It took hours of me to get it."

"You're a good teacher," she replied automatically, and saw him grin at her praise.

"Thanks, but I don't think we know that yet," he said, and Yura lifted her brow as he tightened the clasp of their hands. "Let's see what we can do with your new-found talent."

And she yelped as he abruptly sent her spinning like a top before pulling her back in, their feet sporadically leaving the floor as they cavorted at the same wild pace as the larger mass of bodies. Yura gripped Rikuo's shoulder tightly as he laughed in her ear, clearly enjoying himself, and despite her alarm at his energy, she eventually smiled in answer.

With his enthusiasm, her new confidence, and both of their inexperience, the two had multiple close calls with their fellow dancers and each other, leading many to turn toward them in curiosity…and confusion. Neither of them seemed to notice.

* * *

"What are they _doing_?"

Maki watched the strange pair from her spot on the dance floor, brow arched in shock and slight fear.

"I think they're…dancing?" Torii cocked her head, hoping the different angle would support her claim.

"You call _that_ dancing? It's straight out of the eighties!"

"Well," Kana began, thinking back to past school events, "Rikuo-kun never _did_ have the best feet for dancing. And the dances he _did_ know were always out of trend."

"Hey, what's everyone standing around for?" Shima sauntered up to the girls with Tsurara coming up behind him. Catching onto their line of sight, the snow woman gasped.

"Oh no! I _told_ Rikuo-sama not to dance with anyone but me!"

Maki's brow rises higher, and Kana and Torii look at the girl with surprise. "Why? And what's with the –sama?"

"N-never mind that! Rikuo-_kun_ was taught to dance by his mother and grandfather! And they only know dances from when _they_ were young!" Tsurara clapped her hands to her cheeks, watching the oblivious pair. "He's making a fool of himself, and that onmyouji girl is _letting_ him!"

The others stared at her. "Uhhhh…"

"Is it really that serious?" Torii asked, her voice lowered in a murmur that the snow woman wouldn't hear.

"You know Tsurara-chan. _Everything_ seems to be a big deal when it comes to Nura-kun."

The group watched as Tsurara scurried off to the buffet table, her arms waving frantically as she yelled at a trio of older men, at least two of whom looked suspiciously familiar.

"Is that…Kurata-kun? We haven't seen him since middle school! Where's he been all this time?"

"Probably juvie. Wasn't he the leader of some motorcycle gang?"

"What about the guy in the suit? Haven't we seen _him_ before, too?"

"This night just got _weird_."

"Should've known it would. _Kiyotsugu_ planned it."

* * *

Rikuo stopped.

Yura's feet went still, her features furrowing in confusion. "Nura-kun?" She blinked when he smiled at her sheepishly, and she thought she caught a flash of red in his eyes.

"I'm changing," he announced, and at the same moment, a pulse seemed to issue from his body, a powerful thrum that made the small hairs on her arms stand erect.

"Oh." She dropped her arms, head cocked to the side as she studied him. "Wait, didn't you think of that before you decided to come?"

"Yeah. I was going to leave the party before it got too late, but…" His grin widened. "I got a little distracted."

"…Oh." Yura gazed down at their clasped hands and realization dawned. "_Oh_. Sorry."

"It's okay. We were having a lot of fun." Yura prepared to step away completely, but Rikuo maintained the hold on her hands for a short moment before letting go with a small nod. "I'll be back in a minute," he announced decisively, and Yura blinked, bewildered, as he backed away.

"What do you mean 'you'll be back'?"

"Trust me. Keep practicing your steps!" And he disappeared into the crowd. Yura stayed rooted to the spot, baffled as her classmates continued to dance around her. Then, with a shrug, she made her way to the buffet table before backtracking to the other side of the room, where she planted herself in the same chair she occupied an hour earlier. Popping a morsel into her mouth, she stretched her toes as much as she could in her flats, her heels throbbing after spending so much time on the hard wood of the dance floor.

She had just closed her eyes to gift them a rest from the streaming lights when a familiar voice sounded in front of her.

"Yura-kun! There you are!" She opened her eyes in reluctance and sat up, offering a polite smile for Kiyotsugu as he sidled up to her, flashy clothes perfectly matching the glamour of the hall.

"Kiyotsugu-kun." She nodded her head in greeting.

"May I say you look absolutely stunning! A real China doll, _that's_ what you are, a porcelain noblewoman with the world wrapped around her finger. At this rate, I'll have to start calling you Yura-_chan_!"

Yura inwardly cringed at the endearment, a brief image of Hidemoto cropping up in her thoughts. "Thank you, Kiyotsugu-kun, but that's all right. Yura-kun is fine."

"Well then," the boy started, eyes narrowing in an imitation of suaveness, "If that's the case, honor this humble host with a dance, instead. A celebration of your beauty."

"I'm afraid she can't." Jumping, both teens turned to regard the unexpected newcomer, and Yura choked to see Rikuo standing before them, his shirt and slacks exchanged for his usual black kimono, dual-toned hair jetting from his head, garnet eyes glowing.

He smirked at her alarm before focusing on Kiyotsugu, whose mouth hung open in disbelief. "Yo, Kiyotsugu," he called, breaking the boy's freeze. "Like I said, she can't join you. Turns out she's pretty useless on the dance floor. You'd be better off finding another partner."

"What?!" Yura clenched her fists in irritation, an old annoyance bubbling in her stomach. "I just learned an _hour_ ago!"

"And yet you sit here lazing as if you're a pro." Rikuo clucked his tongue, shaking his head. "What a lousy student."

With a growl, the girl shot to her feet, finger pointed at his face menacingly. Just as she opened her mouth to spout insults, Rikuo cut in, turning back to Kiyotsugu. "You see? You could do _much_ better than a boyish, vulgar girl like her."

"_Boyish?!_"

Finally, Kiyotsugu responded. "Su…su…su…Supreme Commander_?!_"

Rikuo's eyebrow rose. "A roomful of made –up women, and _I'm_ what gets you excited? I suggest regrouping your priorities." Abruptly, he grabbed Yura's arm and hauled her to his side. "In the meantime, I'll take this one off your hands."

"H-hey! Let _go_ of me!" The girl yelled, her fingers flexing like claws as he dragged her into the crowd, which swayed like the tide to a lethargic tune. Struggling, she yelped as the ayakashi pulled her to his chest, placed her hands on his shoulders, and wrapped his arms around her waist.

He sighed. "There. Will you stop squealing now?" When she opened her mouth to retort, he flicked her nose. "Why didn't you keep practicing?"

"My feet hurt!" She glared up the man, eyes narrowed in anger. "It's not like you were supposed to come back, anyway."

His head cocked. "I told you I'd be back. It's your fault if you didn't believe me."

"Why are you still here in the first place? You can't waltz into a room full of humans like it's nothing!"

"I just did. And we didn't finish our lesson."

She stopped, calming a little. "What?"

"You think the only form of dancing is bouncing around the room like your head's cut off?" Rikuo shook his head, disappointed. "What do they _teach_ you at that Kyoto house of yours?"

"_Bastard_," the girl hissed, and Rikuo smirked.

"Nevertheless, it falls to me to teach you properly. May the gods have mercy on me." Before Yura could fire back, Rikuo tightened his hold and lifted one of her hands from his shoulder to grasp in his own. With a confident easiness, he began swaying to the music, and Yura released a noisy huff of air before half-heartedly copying his motions. Eventually, they fell back into the synchronicity they had shared before.

"There you go," Rikuo rumbled, ignoring the confused gazes of their classmates. "It seems you're not _completely_ hopeless."

"Too bad _you're_ still an asshole of a teacher."

He chuckled. "All in good time, china girl. All in good time."


	3. The Unspoken Word

**A/N**: This was supposed to be a drabble. Instead, I think it's a super-short one-shot. Oh well! A huge thank you to all who have supported my stories. Enjoy! And for anyone wondering about CitS, it's on the way ;)

**Disclaimer**: Don't own, only borrow.

**Summary**: Rikuo and Yura discuss future romantic prospects and attempt to offer "friendly" advice.

* * *

_The Unspoken Word_

* * *

"Yo, Yura."

The onmyouji sighs, back remaining turned to her bedroom's newest occupant. "Come to bother me again, I see."

"Nothing else to do," is Rikuo's easy answer; with a contented sigh, he lounges against the wall next to her desk, sword tucked to his shoulder.

Yura snorts derisively, noting the familiarity pervading his movements. "Don't you have a clan to lead?"

"Yes, but they don't need my constant supervision." The youkai eyes her profile, smirking at her concentration. "Unlike other clans I know of."

"As if _you_ don't play nurse-maid every morning to a bunch of hung-over ayakashi."

Rikuo chuckles, accepting the barb with grace. "Fair enough." He studies the sporadic motions of her hand as she scrawls on a document; one of many, he feels safe to guess. "When's the last time you took a break?"

"This morning when I started."

He _tsks_ in disappointment. "Sounds like you've been running yourself into the ground. Again."

"I'm almost done, brown-noser. Entertain yourself 'til then."

"Not the point." With an ayakashi's agility, Rikuo grabs Yura's writing hand, examining the pale skin and the tendons underneath. "You need a break."

"No, I _don't_. _You_ need to mind your business." The woman tries to wrench her hand away, but he keeps a tight hold, his fingers absentmindedly fitting in the spaces between her knuckles. She sighs and taps the short nails of her other hand against her desk, hoping to release _some_ anger in a productive manner.

Ten years they've been doing this, and the script still refuses to change. As if to agree with her, the candle on her desk emits a soft _pop_ as the fire licks at the wick.

"You really should have someone doing this nonsense for you." Rikuo smirks. "You don't see _me_ wasting my life away signing mountains of papers."

"Unlike you, I'm not a pampered princess. I carry my own weight."

"Must be difficult task." He chuckles when her fingers squeeze his in an attempt to become a fist. "And it's prince."

"I know what I said. And it's _princess_."

Rikuo shakes his head at her smug tone and lightly pinches the skin on the back of her hand in retaliation. Yura starts at the twinge and prepares to counter, but he pats the offended site in appeasement. "Jerk," she mutters, but she accepts the unspoken apology.

"Speaking of princesses and errand boys…" Rikuo continues gripping her hand, eyes trained on the moving shadows dotting the corners of her room, "Have you finally found a dreary husband to bore you into a premature grave?"

"You have to ask?" Yura taps a rhythm on her desk and takes a calm sip of her now-cold tea. "Have you found a doting wife to stick to your hip like a parasite?"

"Not yet," he chuckles, eyeing her in mock-empathy. "But I hope to soon."

"I'd rather pass."

"Smart choice. With how dull your life already is," and Rikuo casually lifts his chin to indicate the large, impersonal space of her chambers, "you need someone who can bring a certain excitement to your everyday."

Rolling her eyes at his tease, Yura takes control of her hand and squeezes his fingers, too hard to be affectionate. "And with your asshole attitude, _you_ need someone willing to call you on your shit."

Rikuo's chuckle reverberates through the room before she even finishes, and he pats the woman's slender hand in a truce before finally letting go. He reclines on the floor, eyes closed in respite, hand disappearing into his kimono to lazily scratch at his stomach. Yura returns to her documents, lips involuntarily quirked in a humored smile.

She wants to say that their atmosphere is too relaxed, their silence too comfortable. She suspects that her intruder is just as aware, perhaps exceedingly so, but like her, he refuses to speak a word in about it.

_Perhaps_, she thinks, recalling their words and the lingering warmth on her skin, _that's for the best._


End file.
